Wilted Heroes

Faces sneer down at me
And chew flowers to the bone
As I bathe in false tranquility.
I step bare-footed on the white-hot stone
As I avoid their grabbing hands and hear their groans
And whimpers; I listen but do not act.
I weep and writhe at the utterance of their moans.
In my ears do the sounds cataract and blur, joining into one
As the dances of the dead and forgotten simmer
Their feet resonating and churning, still are none.
Their falsified coats of heroism shimmer.
The ones to join the dance turn their blades upon themselves
And begin to move their feet:
Their vessels silent
And still.

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